Rough Patch

–Where did you get it?
-Satellite’s.
–On Kline?
-Uh-huh.
–Oh. I guess we can use it. Maybe for the laundry scene.
-It wasn’t meant for the show.
–It’d work though.
-I guess. Are we gonna talk about this?
–After dinner. Unless your parents stay.
-They might. I can’t see how that matters. Another excuse to use? If only for their own sake?
–Not again.
-No. Of course not.
–You know I never said…
-Among all the things you could never say. What part of your silence is fair game?
–Whatever part remains?
-Cute.

Junior Copywriter

Thomas: That’s not what L.A. is about these days. Remember in the old commercials? You knew right away. There was a certain, crispness. Your aunt used tell a story about meeting your uncle that might help explain. Hannah, tell the ice cream story about Kip.

Hannah: It was always cold in that house until eleven when the sun would shine through the huge front window. Stereo in the center. Ficus to the right. Casting such crazy shadows. That’s when I’d usually be lying on the yellow shag carpet with their Persian cat, Sasha. Staring up at the ceiling. Rolling the threads of the rug’s weave between my thumb and forefinger. When I got up, I put the T.V. Guide next to the orange bowl on the rosewood end table and walked past his grandmother’s cork lamp–which he watered every day. I made myself a cup of coffee. If she only knew, I thought. Later, when we shared a sundae in the Tastee Freez off Liberty Street. He said, “Can you believe it?” I said, “Never in a million years.” Then, we took a stroll on the dock. He said, “It can’t be true. Can it?” We got to the end and sat down. The balls of our feet skimmed the surface of the pond as we swung our legs. I said, “Seems to me regardless, if it’s true, we’ll be okay.”